


and our skin blends with each caress

by inkwelled



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Lazy Mornings, Literal Sleeping Together, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Riding, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Sex, Teasing, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: “Morning,” she murmurs back and Peter’s smile is tangible against her skin.His other hand sweeps across the back of her neck, soon replaced with his lips. They’re both loose-limbed and slow with sleep, movements languid and she hums in time with his kisses. She’s only clad in one of his shirts and underwear, too tired the night before to put anything else on before falling into bed.





	and our skin blends with each caress

**Author's Note:**

> title ; [a.m](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2315334/am/) by slay
> 
> notes ; this was actually partially written as part of day seven. i got about halfway through and realized this didn't go with the theme so i cut it, but loved it so much i couldn't bear to trash it. so i polished it a bit, consulted [some art](http://fenthelascivious.tumblr.com/post/166800266425/just-lazy-day) and got this!
> 
> originally i said i was going to cap this off at 2.4k. ha! as you can see, i have no self-control and this got away from me (slightly). please be kind, this is my first time writing something this,, ,Intense.
> 
> enjoy!

Gamora wakes slowly. 

For a moment, everything is hazy. All she knows is she’s warm, hovering on uncomfortably so, and there’s a solid figure behind her. There’s an ache in her shoulders when she stretches them up and out, the blankets slipping off arms and she smiles. 

“Good morning,” Peter rumbles behind her and she scoots closer. 

Her legs are folded, his knees snuggled into the backs of hers, and his hand rests on her hip. Underneath the blanket draped over them, his fingers are warm and that warmth makes her moan contently when he starts rubbing circles into the hem of her panties. 

“Morning,” she murmurs back and Peter’s smile is tangible against her skin. 

His other hand sweeps across the back of her neck, soon replaced with his lips. They’re both loose-limbed and slow with sleep, movements languid and she hums in time with his kisses. She’s only clad in one of his shirts and underwear, too tired the night before to put anything else on before falling into bed. 

It’s been a long cycle; they’ve been running off barely hours a night while running two consecutive jobs that they both finished last night. Gamora had peeled off her leather with shaking fingers and hadn’t bothered with pulling the blanket over her legs before passing out. 

But now, underneath the soft lighting of the _Benetar_ signaling the start of a day they don’t need to rush into, she’s glad the blanket is over their legs. Peter’s fingers have started to wander into wider circles that span towards her ribs and she just soaks in his warmth. 

Warmth radiates from Peter’s every touch; from his fingertips to his knees to the press of his chest against her back. He’s so close she can feel the puffs of his breath against the back of her neck stuttered with open-mouth kisses. 

The hand that had moved her hair now creeps underneath her, between the mattress and her neck. Wandering fingertips of his left hand skim the side of her neck, the collar of his oversized shirt, her shoulder, and she sucks in a shaky breath. 

 _“Peter,”_ she moans, and his hand slips beneath the shirt. 

Her breath hitches. His fingers, always so warm, are _hot_ as they trace her right breast. Palming her skin, he listens to her faint groans until rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and she jerks. 

Pushing back against him, she laughs breathlessly when she rocks against something hard. Every part of their body is pushed together under the blanket and she finds herself wiggling her hips in circles to hear Peter’s breath stutter behind her. 

She smirks until he pinches her nipple and her pride disintegrates into pure arousal. 

Drunk on touch, Gamora can do nothing but moan and move in time with Peter’s fingers. As well as under her – his – shirt, his fingertips have started to dip below the hem of her panties and every touch stirs the warmth in her abdomen. 

She can _feel_ the silver creeping up her stomach, and by the curve of Peter’s lips against the side of her neck, she knows _he knows._  

“Tell me what you want,” he purrs against her skin. 

She closes her eyes as his fingertips dip lower, lower, _lower,_ hovering so close yet so far from where she wants him. They’ve only just begun but she’s so high-strung every touch feels like fireworks under her skin. Her chest heaves with every breath and Peter’s tongue against the side of her neck is driving her wild. 

Moaning as his tongue flicks against her skin, Gamora finds that despite her lips moving there’s no sound. Peter’s palm on her thigh, moving so slowly her head spins, is gradually pushing her panties down her legs and she sighs. 

Opening her thighs in a vain effort to get him closer to where she feel herself growing wetter with every touch, Gamora gasps. Peter’s left hand has moved onto her left breast, swirling circles around the nipple and she reaches back, between her ass and his abdomen and smirks. 

Peter bites down on her ear when she closes her palm around the bulge in his boxers and she _moans_ so loudly his hand leaves her breast. “Shhh,” he whispers into her ear, palm coming up to cover her lips and her next groan is muffled. 

“Not yet, baby,” Peter murmurs into her ear, “first, you.” 

His hand creeps to her knee and then he’s lifting it, hooking it around his own so she’s exposed, open wide. A thrum of excitement bolts down her spine and she pushes back into him, the only thing she can do moan through swollen lips. 

Peter puffs hot air against her neck and all she can do is groan, nerves frayed and overstimulated, Every brush of his fingers against her skin does nothing but wind her up tighter, tighter, and the coil is her abdomen threatens to snap with every minute. Her body is humming, on the edge with every movement and she _arches_ when Peter’s fingers _finally_ brush against her inner thigh. 

He’s smirking against her neck again and his left hand leaves her mouth. “Tell me what you want.” 

Gamora huffs, her chest heaving with every breath trying to formulate words with the buzzing in her head. She feels disconnected, floating, and Peter’s hand is now sliding up her ribs underneath her shirt. She’s unraveling at the edges, hips never stilling trying to push up against him for some much-needed friction but he holds her in place. 

“Uh-uh,” he growls, and she keens. “Use your words, baby girl.” 

Hand pushing up her shirt to her neck, his fingertips pinch her nipple again and she throws her head back, wordless, moaning. Peter is usually so submissive when they’re in bed, letting her take control while relinquishing his own and this side of him, this _possession,_ makes her blood hum. 

She breathes out. 

“What was that?” Peter says, tracing around where she wants, so close yet too far, too much yet not enough. “I couldn’t hear you.” 

_“You.”_

Her nerves are on fire, skin sparking and threatening to ignite every time his fingertips circle again, and again, and _again._ Peter’s pinching her nipple, palming her breast, tracing circles into her inner thighs and she’s pushing back against him, hips never stopping, head tipped back as she moans, and moans, and _moans._

He hasn’t even touched her yet. 

Peter’s fingertips pass up and down, and she doesn’t have to look to know they’re wet. Then his fingers are replaced by his entire palm, and she keens. He’s still teasing her, but he cups his hand between her legs and kisses her shoulder. 

“Words, baby.” 

“Touch me,” she breathes, and her hand wraps around his neck, burying her fingers in the wisps at the nape, pulling him close until she can kiss him. 

Peter’s lips are pliant against hers and he finally, _finally,_ touches her. 

Every nerve lights up. Gamora moans, arching against him as his fingertips gather wetness and press in all the right places. Her entire body jolts and Peter whispers nothings into her ear as he circles her clit, pressing down and rubbing in quick movements before letting up. 

She’s breathing out in harsh puffs, bucking against his fingers and she groans through pursed lips when his fingers move lower, teasing. He stays like that, gathering wetness and she grabs at his hip again, frustrated. 

Peter chuckles against her neck and his finger slides into her. She’s already so sensitive that the single finger has her throwing her head back and Peter’s left hand catches her neck, traps her there. This dominant role coming from Peter makes the silver flush deeper against her skin and her chest heaves. 

At first he doesn’t move. His finger stays still inside her until she starts to rut against not just his hip, but the bulge in his underwear and he chuckles. “Patience,” he growls, before drawing it out until just the tip of his finger is inside her. 

He kisses her, hard, and thrusts his finger back in. Gamora moans, loud, and her thighs snap together. She’s writhing, hips moving in circles as she grasps at his hips, his thighs, the bulge his thin boxers doesn’t hide. 

The hand at her throat moves away, back to her breast and she gasps. “Relax,” he purrs into her skin, hand between her legs still moving as he adds a second finger. Gamora draws her bottom lip between her teeth, letting his wrist push her legs apart as they begin to shift. 

Peter unhooks her heel from behind his knee. He pushes her thigh down until his hand is trapped between them, fingers never moving inside her and she pushes back into him, again and again and _again_. Already she’s so close, hovering just beyond release that she’s craving so bad. 

His fingers disappear just as her mind starts to cloud. 

Whining, Gamora goes to grasp for his form behind her but he’s gone. Her hand grasps at sheets until there’s _something_ between her thighs and her fingers squeeze the sheets into a ball. Her hand, the one not fisting the blankets, inches downwards until she can lift the blanket and _moans_ at the sight. 

Peter’s face is buried between her legs, curls rumpled, eyes closed. His tongue is quick and wet when it lathes over her clit, her folds and she throws her head against the pillows, arching her back. She’s writhing, hips stuttering with every swipe of Peter’s tongue and she discards the blanket covering him. 

“P-peter.” 

Under the lights of the _Benetar,_ Gamora watches in fascination as Peter eats her out. His nose is pressed against the path of black curls above her mound and she cards shaking fingers through his curls, tugging lightly. 

His responding moan sends vibrations coursing through her and she’s moaning again, no thought to how loud she’s probably being. Her mind is clouded, nerves fried and sparking as Peter’s tongue circles her clit, nose pressing down when he pushes it _inside._

It’s even better than his fingers. 

Her heels press into his back, thighs opening even _wider_ to invite him closer, deeper. She’s spiraling faster and faster, chest heaving quicker as his fingers re-enter her, tongue coming back up to lick at her clit. 

She’s so close, her vision goes white and she can’t tell if the ringing in her ears is her moaning or the engines. Maybe it’s her screaming, maybe the Guardians can hear, maybe they can’t. 

She doesn’t care. 

Gamora’s bucking wildly against the mattress with every pass of his tongue and then, all at once, she’s empty again. 

For a second, she just lays there. 

Then she growls. Peter’s face is still between her legs but he’s languidly circling her folds, smirking up at her. She grabs at the sides of his face, pulling him up up _up_ until she can taste herself on his lips. 

She doesn’t give him time to react before she hooks her leg around his hip and flips them. Peter’s back hits the mattress with a _thump_ and she’s suddenly above him, smirking. “Who’s in charge now,” she purrs and surges down to kiss him. 

Peter moans into her mouth and pride runs through her. She’s circling her hips, surely soaking the front of his boxers but he deserves it. She rips off his shirt, throwing it somewhere in the room – she doesn’t know where, nor does she care – and Peter’s eyes darken, growing wide. 

Gamora has him pinned down, and she leans down in the kiss until her breasts brush against his pecs. 

His breath hitches and she nips at his jaw while her hands slide up his arms, slow, teasing. Without warning, she slams his wrists together, back against the pillow above his head and her other hand comes down to grab his bulge, pressed beneath her ass. 

“My turn.” 

Peter’s hips stutter. “F-fuck, ‘Mora–” 

She’s smirking down at him, hair cascading over her shoulder and he thinks he’s never seen her look so…in _control._ He doesn’t have to tug at his wrists to know there’s no way he’s moving unless _she_ wants him to, unless _she_ lets him. 

Her hand flattens against his stomach, pushing the hem of his boxers down his thighs only far enough she can wrap her hand around his length. Peter bucks but she just tuts, lower lip between her teeth as she squeezes her fist around him. 

She runs her fist up and down his length and he’s groaning, throwing his head back and straining against her hips. “Stay,” she hisses into his ear before releasing his wrists, instead pushing her palm against the middle of his stomach, anchoring him. 

“Now,” she murmurs into his ear, bending so low again that her nipples brush his, “I’m trusting you to keep your hands there. Can you?” 

He nods, eager, and there’s a sense of victory in her eyes as she lifts her hips and takes him inside, all at once. 

Peter curses. She’s dripping, tight, and there’s no hesitation. Gamora throws her head back and rides him into oblivion. 

There’s a wet spot on his abdomen from where she sat for so long, and Peter has to force himself to look anywhere but her face, where his length disappears inside her with each thrust. She’s greedy, taking him in deeper, her eyes closed. 

Thighs flexing on either side of his lips, Gamora bounces up and down. Peter bites his lip, trying not to focus on the way her breasts move in time to her thrusts or the curve of her neck as she tosses her head back, moaning. 

He wants so _desperately_ to touch her; to grip her hips and watch her eyes flutter as he brings his own hips up to meet her with every thrust. He wants to rub her clit until she clenches around him with a cry, wants to sit up and bury his face between her breasts. 

Peter’s hands clench together on the pillow as she increases the cant of her hips. He can feel her fluttering around him, starting to fall apart at the seams as she braces both her hands on his abdomen and pushes herself down, up, crying out. 

“Peter, you feel so good – I’m gonna…gonna ride you and watch as you f-fall apart inside me.” 

He moans, hips stuttering up and she groans. “Y-you feel so good.” 

There’s a coil in his stomach, drawing tighter with every thrust. He knows if he looks at her for too long he’ll lose it now so he closes his eyes and breathes in time with her hips slamming down onto his, trying not to think about the wet heat surrounding him. 

_Fuck._

“P-please,” he cries. 

Gamora’s smirk sends a jolt through him. “Yes?” 

Riding him as messily as she is, tangled hair hanging around her face and sweat dripping down her sternum, she shouldn’t be this much of a turn-on. But maybe that’s _why_ she is; Gamora is always put together. Her hair is always perfect, clothes immaculate, emotions under control. 

She’s the definition of a perfectionist. Getting under her skin like this is always fun, breaking that shell. 

But now, head thrown back and moaning while she rides him like there’s no tomorrow, Peter thinks he likes both sides of her. Around him, she’s growing tighter and tighter and her thrusts are shallower as her release starts to grow in her stomach. 

She’s so close, close enough she can start to feel her mind cloud over and she braces her hands behind her on his thighs. Like this, Peter can see the way she stretches to accommodate him and his head spins. 

“Mora, I’m gonna– ” he pants, and her returning smile, amid sweat-tangled curls stuck to her face doesn’t help. 

“Cum for me.” 

Peter arches back, vision going white. Her body pins his hips down but he’s still bucking into her warmth and he’s not _so_ far gone that he can’t feel her tighten even more if that’s even possible. He’s gasping, moaning, and above him Gamora’s fingers wander to the curls between her legs until she’s shaking too, legs wobbling with the force of her release. 

He falls back against the pillows, sated, watching as she jerks above him. For a minute, he rests his hand gently on her thighs where they bracket his thighs until she stops shaking. He slips out of her, limp, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek, bring her down for a kiss. 

Gamora all but falls into the blankets next to him and he hums when she snuggles into his side. “I’m still mad at you for your denial stunt earlier,” she informs him, pulling the blanket up past their chests and he smiles. 

“Guilty as charged. I have no regrets.” 

She smiles into his ribs, hair sticking to her neck. Peter’s fingers card through the ends, lifting it from her nape and she hums at the feeling. 

“I really hope we didn’t wake Groot,” Peter observes and she freezes. 

“Oh,  _God.”_

There’s a pounding on the door and they both jump. “Hey, lovebirds! If you’re done screwing the brains out of each other we got breakfast if your throats aren’t too sore to eat from all the screaming.” 

Gamora presses her face into Peter’s shoulder, laughing breathlessly. She should feel guilty that the other Guardians heard them, but the slight pulsing between her legs erases any shame she might’ve had. 

Despite the announcement, neither one makes a move to get up, still boneless and languid after their shared release. 

She’s the first one to sit up, not bothering to take the blanket with her. It slips down her chest, pooling around her hips and the sheets behind her rustle. 

“Peter,” she says, mockingly stern when he presses kisses to her spine, “we gotta go.” 

“Noooo,” he whines, arms coming around her waist. “Stay.” 

“Breakfast will be cold,” she reminds him but she’s already surrendering, sliding back under the blankets. Peter pulls her close, sweaty skin against sweaty skin and she doesn’t care, intertwining their legs together. His arm comes around her shoulder and she presses a kiss to his chest. 

Rumbling beneath her ear, Peter hums. “Hi.” 

Gamora shifts her head to look up at him. “Hi,” she whispers, before pushing herself up onto her toes to kiss him. Somehow, she ends up back on top of him until he hooks his leg around hers and flips them. 

She’ll let him. 

She knows breakfast will be cold by the time they emerge, and Rocket will make retching noises when they slide onto the bench at the table, shoulders and hips pressed together. She’ll be slightly sore for the rest of the day, and Mantis will avert her eyes when she spots the hickies that will litter her neck after this when they spar and the collar of her shirt slips. 

But for now, she tips her head back and lets Peter kiss her cheek, nuzzling into her skin before pulling back and tracing the scars on her face. She’ll let him, cupping his own cheek before simply admiring him – the curls that hang over his forehead, curve of his nose, the crest of his upper lip that he keeps so well-trimmed. 

He’ll bracket her hips with his knees, leaning his forehead against hers and they’ll both simply _breathe._

Here, within the shared atmosphere of their bunk, she’ll press her fingertips into his cheekbones and look into his dark green eyes. She won’t blink, neither will he, and they’ll simply _be._

But for now, Rocket bangs on the door again, threatening to send Drax in because _breakfast is getting cold, stop sucking face and come eat something that isn’t Greenie, Star-Munch._

Peter drops his face into her shoulder, chuckling, and she – regretfully – slips out from under him. He whispers he loves her while she buttons up her shirt and she turns to kiss him. Beneath her fingertips, he is pliant and warm and she trails her hand across his shoulder in passing on her way out the door. 

 _“Tonight,”_ she whispers right before the door closes between them and later that day, he’ll pin her to the wall in the corridor and slip his hand into her pants. 

But for now, _right now_ , she pulls him closer.

**Author's Note:**

> once again, [this stunning art](http://fenthelascivious.tumblr.com/post/166800266425/just-lazy-day) by fenthelascivious. warning - nsfw!


End file.
